


Mine

by cherry3point14



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Chef!You, Dark fic, Dean POV, F/M, Implied Smut, Manipulation, Minor Violence, Murder, POV First Person, Stalking, but seriously, ha ha ha ha ha, implied past murders, so I watched YOU on Netflix, stalker au, stalker!Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-09 02:38:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17398424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherry3point14/pseuds/cherry3point14
Summary: Boy meets girl. Boy is convinced that he needs to look after girl. The rest just kind of happens.AKA A stalker AU vaguely based on 'You' where Dean is seven shades of stalker.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> A tiny prologue to this weird stalker AU I’m writing. Note - the main story is in Dean POV so thanks, I hate writing it but also don’t get used to this format I guess?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A tiny prologue to this weird stalker AU I’m writing. Note - the main story is in Dean POV so thanks, I hate writing it but also don’t get used to this format I guess?

Dean learns from a young age that he exists in this world to take care of things more important than himself. It’s not as depressing as it sounds. Knowing where he stands is the focus he needs to drag his way through the murkiness of life.  
  
The first thing he learns is to take care of is Sammy. His brother is the baby of the family, then the man who will always be his baby brother. "Protect Sam," is a mantra that Dean mumbles in his sleep from the age of six. Everything Dean knows, hell everything he is, is in the pursuit of better keeping his brother safe.  
  
Not safe. That’s not right. A gun and some training, that’s everything necessary to keep Sam safe. It’s more than that. He has to care. Caring is more than keeping monsters at bay. Dean makes him laugh, he knows what cereal to buy when he has the money, and how to live in shitty motel rooms. Dean teaches Sam to exist, in a life that shouldn't.  
  
He doesn’t always get it right. He’s learning as he goes and sometimes he’s a kid, then a teenager. Sometimes Dean is selfish and forgets that he has a job to do all day, every day.  
  
It’s not like Sam is the job. Sam is his brother, not a chore. It’s all the things that need to happen for Sam to survive. His brother is the center of a universe and Dean has to keep the planets spinning.  
  
Sam is the first person he has to take responsibility for but it's a lesson he keeps learning. To care for things that are special and valuable. Better than he is.  
  
His dad's car. _His_ car. Baby.  
  
John treats that car better than he treats his boys. Dean’s too young to understand that it's a problem at first and by the time he's old enough to connect the dots it’s too late. Dean already loves the car himself and thinks it’s another thing that’s his obligation. By then Dean is a teenager; he knows his place. He knows more than how to change her oil or tune her engine. He knows that the car is, like Sam, above him in importance.  
  
The ranking is necessary, essential. The list in Dean's head of things to look after makes the world black and white. There’s nothing he won’t do and nothing he won’t sacrifice for those that he needs to protect.  
  
Later in life, the list gets longer. Cas, Charlie, Kevin, Jack. Not everyone makes it and Dean carries the failures as weights on his shoulders.  
  
Most people are on the list exist by design. They fall in front of him and he picks them back up because that’s what he does. But every so often he gets to choose someone or something to add; if possible he treats them with more reverence.  
  
The list spans objects, people and extends to the world. Even when he complains that the world doesn’t need saving he still knows it’s his to defend.  
  
Dean Winchester has a job. The most important job. Bigger than any hunt. More consuming than any big bad. The one job that will take him cradle to grave.  
  
Dean has to look after things.  
  



	2. YOU

This should be my happy place. I’ve been thinking about this for like, a week. But Sam’s bitch face was never part of my plan. He’s overreacting. The line isn’t even that long, there are two tables in front of us when we park up and the line has doubled behind us. That’s not good enough for my brother though. I’m not even sure why he came, before we left he kept saying how we had food in the kitchen.

Not that I’m mad about his company. It was a good two-hour drive and I got to spend it with him. It’s been a lifetime since we drove anywhere without finding someone dead at the other end. Vegas week got skipped a few years back and remains a memory. Our lives, in general, get more and more caked in blood and shit. I’m not counting or anything but we deserved a couple of normal hours on the road.

Except we’re at a diner so it’s me that deserves this. Sam deserves a trip to a farmers market or something. That’s a problem for tomorrow.

Although this place isn’t just a diner; that makes it sound like any other pancake house on any other highway. This is _the_ diner. It’s a gutted gas station turned restaurant that’s the best everything in the state. A well-kept secret. Or at least it had been until the food blogs, that I definitely don’t read, got a hold of it. Now it’s full of beanie wearing douchebags taking pictures of their food, and wannabe cowboys who want to do the same.

“Hey, guys. You’re looking at about a thirty-minute wait for a table. Unless you want to sit at the counter?” Her eyes dart about as she talks, between the line behind us to the people already sitting, and back again.

There are two seats at the counter and the sight of them sends a shudder rolling over my shoulders. They’re in the middle of everything, of other people already sitting there and I don’t know if I want to eat that badly. Not in the next thirty minutes anyway. For how long I’ve been dreaming about this burger I don’t want to spend the entire time trying not to nudge the guy next to me. Besides those college kids with the corner table are no way going to last half an hour now that their food’s gone.

Before I can say any of this Sam opens his giant mouth, “counter’s fine, thanks.”

The counter is fine? The counter is anything but fine. The space is too small and I didn’t drive all this way to sit at the goddamn counter during the lunchtime rush. But he’s already taking big moon size steps over there before I get a chance to hiss my opinion at him.  

Son of a bitch.

“You’re a traitor, you know that?” The space I’m supposed to sit in is even smaller now I’m in it.

He actually looks shocked by my accusation, “what? You wanted to eat, this is the quickest way to eat.”

“I wanted to enjoy my food. This isn’t just lunch, it’s a, um,” I slap my hand on the counter when the word hits me, “it’s an experience Sammy. The sort of experience I’d have liked my feet touching the floor for.”

His lips curl up like I’m some sort of amusement for him, “an experience?”

Crap. He’s on to me. He’s seen my browsing history. He knows that SouthernFoodGal recommended the place. “Just don’t order rabbit food ok? Respect the process.” My hand waves in the space between us in the hopes that I can wave away his focus.

It actually works.

The waitress at the counter is, and this is not an exaggeration, about ninety-eight years old. She’s every road weathered, curly-haired truck stop waitress from the movies. I’m wondering if it’s a legal thing that every diner has to have one. It’s gotta be right? It can’t be a coincidence. She smiles though, not a plastered on fake one, and she doesn’t comment on my life expectancy as I order their star burger; the heart attack. Sam doesn’t need to comment because I can see his judgment out the corner of my eye, and that’s before I order fries. At the very least he orders a chicken burger instead of salad. Hopefully, he’ll cheer up with some bread in his stomach.

The place is buzzing so I’m not sure if we have total privacy or if every word we say will be broadcast. The conversation stays light then. Free of monsters and angels and demons. I get a chance to hear about a book Sam read that wasn’t lore. It’s good to let him talk like this. It reminds me that he’s ok, he’s doing ok. He’s still got this slither of a normal guy left in him as he gushes over the story; that’s enough for me to smile at.

The food arrives fast, hot and before Sam has finished talking. It takes two hands to lift my burger since it’s more a stack of food rather than a meal. And yet the beast in my hands isn’t leaking grease all over me. The smell of meat and cheese hits my nose before the food reaches my tongue. All my senses band together for that first bite.

“Are you kidding me?” With food swirling around my mouth I still manage a moan.

Sam frowns at my plate, then me, “what?”

“Look at this!” it’s all about the cross-section so waving it in his direction will surely be enough to explain. Yet Sam’s face stays blank unless you count the sneer he tries to hide, so I swallow all slow and regretfully. The food had to leave my mouth at some point I guess. “This is a work of art. Bacon’s crispy, three different type of cheese, onion rings Sammy. Don’t even get me started on the sauce. This is- shit the pickles have gotta be homemade. This was worth the drive.”

That’s probably not as big a compliment as it could be considering how far we drive everywhere for everything. I know what I mean to say though. It’s been a while since I ate food that was more than just fast. This is damn good.

“This is pretty good too,” Sam chimes in with much less enthusiasm. Offensively less. I’d be annoyed on behalf of the place except I take another bite and the anger in my gut fades to nothing.

Eating the rest of the meal becomes a blur. I'm caught between wanting to swallow it whole and not wanting to finish it at all. Doesn't even matter that I elbowed the guy next to me twice.  Too soon our elderly waitress Carol is taking my plate away before she checks her watch.

“Y/N,” she shouts through the pass into the kitchen. “Can you watch the counter while I take my ten?” Apparently, it didn’t matter about the lunch rush or the line out the door, Carol was taking her ten. She’s a seasoned waitress who got our order right first time. I appreciate her enough that panic bubbles in my gut for a second. What if this Y/N person brings the wrong pie?

The worry is fleeting because then the door swings open with a crash of wood on wood.

The sound of your entrance is what catches my attention, you are what keeps it. You step out in your chef whites, rolled at the sleeves and an apron pinning it all at your waist. The apron giving you a figure even in your uniform. I can tell you still want to be proud of your body underneath your pulled back hair and shiny face from the heat of the kitchen. You're sporting an oversized pout, aimed in the direction of the waitress whose name I’ve forgotten by now. “Only if you tell me I’m pretty.”

You are pretty. I’d tell you that. You have the kind of soft features that are pretty even if you’re not dolled up and I’m not half drunk. You’re pretty, and then you laugh at your own joke, and like that you’re beautiful. Anybody would have a hard time convincing me I’m not staring straight into the sun.

Carol’s voice is scolding if not playful as she shakes her head, “yeah, pretty annoying.” You shoo her away with a waved hand before your face turns hard and serious. Even if you’re only covering for ten minutes you hold yourself like this is most important job you’ve ever had. You survey your kingdom with concern etched on that sweet little face of yours until you lock eyes with me. Quickly softening into an easy smile. Acknowledging my stare as a call for attention. You wanted to come over anyway, right? I only gave you an excuse.

“How was the food guys?” You don’t even glance in Sam’s direction.

I like this move. Sam hasn’t looked up from his phone but you don’t want to make a big deal out of coming over here for me. I get it, you don’t want to seem too eager. Which would be easier to pull off if you’d looked away from me yet.

“Best burger I’ve had in months.” The smile I flash you is the charming one I reserve for women in bars. You’re not sucking down vodka though so you raise both eyebrows at my review instead. Your hands move to your hips, again bringing my focus to your waist, begging me to steal a glance at your curves.

“Only the last few months?” You scoff, “not good enough. I’m taking the gold for best burger of your life or I’m taking nothing.” I would think you’re joking except you have his poker face that’s deadly serious. I’m half sure you’re going to storm off and make me something else right now.

It’s only when you don’t move from the spot and your lip finally twitches that a chuckle escapes me, along with a wink. “You’ll have to keep trying then, sweetheart.”  

Is that a blush on your cheeks, or were they that pink since you left the kitchen?

“I didn’t know I had someone with such discerning taste in today or I’d have made you something special.” You have this pucker in your top lip and a flash of something in your eyes, like a fucking promise. I can see you like a challenge and maybe you also want my approval? Maybe you crave it. So, you keep trying, keep working for it, “do you trust me enough to get you something sweet?”

Is it sweeter than you, I wonder? “Depends on if you have pie.”

You jump back as if a jolt of electricity surged through you. You press a hand to your chest with this grand gesture of mock offense. There’s a sickly over the top southern accent too, “sir I’m offended that you think I didn’t make pie fresh this morning.” Another laugh at your own joke although I’ll be honest, I kind of like that about you already. “Apple and blueberry or cherry bourbon?”

Shit. Is this the moment that I’ll remember for the rest of my life?

It’s a stupid question. If I could only take one mental picture it would be you coming back from the kitchen. A sway to your hips, two plates, and one fork.

* * *

We’d talked while I ate. You'd pretended you were waiting for my critique and I wait until both slices are gone before I give you an inch. The whole time some dick at the other end of the counter is staring at you. Desperately trying to will you into noticing him because what? The asshole wants a refill or something? Being rude to wait staff is shitty enough on a normal day but he shouldn't be staring at _you_ like that.

Not that you need to worry about him. He gets a hefty and totally accidental shove on my way out that almost puts him on his ass.

I’m not even sure you noticed when Carol came back because you’d stuck around. The din of the diner quietens enough that I catch the nervous hitch in your voice when you’d told me your name. “I’m Y/N by the way,” tumbles out too fast and too quiet, then you’d asked for mine in the same breath. I’d given it to you, my first name anyway. Why are you so relieved? Did you really think I wouldn’t tell you my name? It’s like you haven’t seen you.  

But see, here’s the thing. I’ve looked out for people before, tried to look out for people, and it’s not been enough. _I’ve_ not been enough. Now I know what I need to do and the lengths I need to go to if I’m going to do protect people. So, checking you out is common sense. It’s a necessary evil to look after myself. You’re beautiful but I need to know if there’s more to you. There’s beautiful in every town. I need to make sure you’re worth all the effort I’m willing to go to.

It’s a two-way street too. I get that. You didn’t have to trust me. It’s probably not uncommon for guys to hit on you at work and for you to give out a fake name. That makes it all the sweeter when I type your name into google and boom, there you are. Smiling so wide in your profile pictures that it makes my cheeks ache. You trusted me which begs the question, are you a little bit naive or was that really a blush?

I’m nursing a glass, my third, while I moon over my laptop. I’m not normally like this. My interest in looking people up online usually limited to finding a connection between victims. I’m not a big social media guy. For you? Well, it’s a means to an end. This is how I get to see more of your story is all.

Lawrence. I almost choke when I see that under ‘hometown’. You were born and raised in Lawrence. In another life, I could have already met you. We’d already be together and today was kismet fixing things on the messed up timeline we’re on. Not that I believe in that shit. Except _you_ make me believe. The deeper I go down the Y/N rabbit hole the more it seems like you’re kind of, sort of, perfect for me.

It’s such a mindless action to pour myself another drink while I scroll that it doesn’t even count as glass number four. You were living in New York until about a year ago. Then you moved to Manhattan, Kansas. There’s this picture of you in a car packed tight with boxes, sunglasses, and a big grin. The caption reads, “if you can’t live in NYC, try Manhattan!” You giggled to yourself while writing that no doubt, I’d stake money on it. There’s no explanation for your move but all your friends liked the post and a bunch of them chime in to say they’ll miss you. I’m interested in what brought you closer, thankful for it. I’ll have to ask you about that one day. Although it’s better that you’re out of the city anyway.

“Found anything?” Sam leaves the kitchen with a glass of water in his hand. Upping his water intake is his new thing and he’s so desperately trying to get me on board. Unfortunately, I hold a deeply rooted belief that pissing that much just ain’t natural.

“What?” I snap, still distracted with images of you. Sam must read it as suspicious because he reels his neck in as quickly as he stuck it out to start the conversation. “Dude, didn’t we talk about keeping the porn to your room?”

My shoulders relax instantly because that’s the simple answer. He thinks it’s hardcore cartoon sex scenes on my screen rather than your Facebook and Instagram. Not that I’m ashamed of you, it’s just better if I keep things under wraps for now. You’ll have to meet Sam eventually. Well, meet him more than the cursory few words you’d offered each other at the diner today.

Out of his sight, one hand clicks to open a new tab in case he decides to peer over my shoulder. The fingers of my other hand drag down my face, all the better to appear dazed and confused. “No, I was looking for a case. Nothing out there.”

There is something out there. You’re out there.

Sam must recognize the tired eyes of someone who’s read too many news articles, though it’s actually too many comments, because he buys what I’m selling. “Guess we’ve got another snow day tomorrow. Any plans?”

“Maybe.” The answer is muttered more to myself than him. He must think I’ve gone back to looking for cases. You know, instead of looking for your address.

* * *

The first time I drive out and park across the street it’s an accident. I’d been going for a drive to nowhere in particular, only looking to chase the horizon for a while. Long roads and smooth tarmac. Good music and definitely not driving to you. Not even in your direction.

I hadn’t been paying attention anyway which is why the drive is so lazy and takes nearly two hours. With a little effort, I’ll get that down to an hour and a half. But again, this wasn’t planned when I first started my engine. If I had planned it I’d have definitely brought more beer.

Your quiet little suburb is cute but not nice enough that it’ll break your heart to leave it behind. You live in this one story townhouse and it’s nice. It’s ok. It’s big enough for one person but it’s not a family home or anything. I can practically see your loneliness behind the blue paint on your front door.

Your car is, well, I’ll take care of that at some point. It’s a Prius for one thing, and it’s too old to be a good car and too modern to be a classic. Thinking about it you might not even need a car. I can drive you wherever.

These are all things I didn’t plan to see or notice, the first time anyway.

Because the first time I’m looking at your house I can’t stop asking myself why the bay window doesn’t have blinds. What are you thinking Y/N? This area might _seem_ nice and safe but really, anybody could pull up and watch you. You don’t need to worry about it while I’m outside but I’m not always here; I haven’t always been here. Don’t think I’ll forget about this either, the question is filed away for when I can ask it properly. A conversation for another day. It’s careless is what it is. How can I look after you if you won’t look after yourself?

The clear glass does mean I can see you, luckily. You make a mug of something warm to drink while you watch a video on your laptop. Whatever it is makes you throw your head back with laughter until your back hits the sofa behind you. It's a carefree moment that I get to share with you. It's the sort of thing I need to see. These little private moments that show me who you are in a way your Instagram won’t.

But it’s the second time I’m outside your house that’s far more eventful.

You haven’t been home from work for long. All you’ve managed is to turn on some music and start singing along while you run a vacuum around the place. My grin is about to damn near break my face watching you.

Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end. Everything stops suddenly and then you pick up your phone. That should be explanation enough, a phone call. Except you don’t answer it immediately. You frown at the thing in your hand and my fingers clench the steering wheel a little tighter. Whoever is on the phone burst the bubble we were both living in and I don't appreciate it.

You’re all stiff movements and tight lips as you answer. The caller has turned you into a bitter version of yourself. Sweeping anger replaces any happiness you held onto as you storm out of the house. You’re so distracted that you get halfway to your car before you have to backtrack and lock your door. Really, Y/N?

No, I don’t blame you. I blame whoever was on the end of that call, they did this to you. They made you careless.

The only answers I’ll get are by following you, which at this point is easy enough. It’s early evening and there are enough other cars on the road to hide behind once we make it out of suburbia.

It’s a bar you finally pull into. A dive by the looks of it. I can tell that much before I’ve caught up with you. Call it a special skill of mine to recognize bars like this.

I’m caught across the street, waiting to cross traffic on a surprisingly busy road. Even from this distance, I see you screech to a halt at the front of the shitty parking lot. Apparently, you haven’t calmed down yet and looking over at the entrance to the bar it’s easy to see why.

The sun has barely gone down. It’s not even 6 pm. And there’s this guy wandering towards your car with the gait of someone who’s drunk as sin. Each step he takes is another rev of my foot on the gas where I’m trying to get to you. The guy isn’t huge or anything but he’s still bigger than you. He’s bigger and drunk and why isn’t there a fucking gap in this traffic?

Finally, I swerve through a gap that isn’t really a gap to the outrage of some dick honking his horn. Not that the noise distracts you or the deadbeat drunk.

You stomp towards him with a slam of your drivers' side door and he calls out at the sight of you, “baby, I knew you’d come get me!”

He falls in your direction and lands with his mouth on yours, his hands pawing at you. And you might push at his chest but it’s not urgent or defenseless. It’s exasperated. It’s so that you can swipe at his chest and berate him, “get in the car before I change my mind.”

What the fuck Y/N? Who is this asshole?


	3. BELONG

The house looks the same. The same open window and blue front door but now there’s a shitty pickup outside of it instead of your Prius. I’m not supposed to know who Carl is beyond his name. I’m not supposed to know that he works as a plumber, elbow deep in actual shit. And I shouldn’t know that he doesn’t even technically live at the address we’ve pulled up at.  
  
There’s a lot about this situation that’s fucked three ways to Sunday. Pulling up outside your house and pretending that Baby doesn’t have a regular spot here is pretty high up the list. The fact that I’m here to talk to _you_ is probably higher up.  
  
When Sam said we were coming to your town for a case I’d panicked. Obviously. He’d said it on the road. Five minutes out of the bunker and he's telling me with a casual flick of his hair that we're heading for Manhattan. Few towns over he’d said. Like I don’t know where it is. Had I missed something while I was there? Had there been a case that I hadn’t seen because I was too busy trying to figure out why you’re dating king of the douchebags? What if _you_ were in danger?  
  
Then we’d rolled into town with our usual shtick. Crime scenes and police department visits. At the end of day one, we know it’s a witch, on account of the hex bags. We both decide to stay local even if we’re only a few hours away from home. Easier to get this over and done with.  
  
That's fine and dandy, or it would be if I wasn’t standing outside your house.  
  
Because now it’s a little too close to home. Now the bad stuff might seep into your life and that’s exactly what I’m trying to keep away from you. Everything bad.  
  
“Hello?” Carl yanks open the door a little too hard. If only you could see this. He has no respect for your home.  
  
Sam and I both hold up our badges in the calm and measured way we’ve long since perfected. Luckily the glare on my face isn't out of character either, “I’m agent Sykes, this is my partner agent Aldrich.”  
  
It’s easy to tell when someone is a sack of shit. They tend to look more than a little shifty when met with feds, fake or otherwise. And this guy? He clams up before I finish reeling off our fake names.  
  
“What- I mean what can I do for you officers?”  
  
Sam continues the well-oiled machine that is our double act. “We’re investigating the deaths of Andrew Hartley, Robert Smith, and Jerry Garfield. We’re aware you knew them from a local bar and we had some questions.”  
  
The dick didn’t murder them at least because he breathes this big sigh of relief and opens his arm to usher us inside.  
  
I want to bite my tongue, I do, I should. I just can’t help myself, “is this your place?” There is absolutely no way that I sound casual.    
  
“No, Nah. This is my, erm, girlfriends.” Carl even stutters over calling you his girlfriend, while in your house, as if he doesn’t want to lock himself down.  
  
Sam doesn’t question the detour except for a fleeting glance in my direction, so that’s good. That’s something he’ll want to talk about later. He knows there is a time and place though. So, he sticks to the script and launches into questions about the victims. Turns out they all drank together. Carl knew them from a bar, that’s it. A few more questions in and it happens. You walk through the front door.  
  
“Oh, I’m sorry I-” you stop in the doorway with a brown paper bag in your hand and shake your head, remembering. “This is my house?”  
  
It’s hard not to laugh. It’s impossible to contain my smile. This is the first time I’m in the same room as you since we met and somehow you got, even more, freaking adorable. Your face is all scrunched in confusion but there’s a flustered joke in your voice.  
  
“Babe, these are some FBI agents investigating those guys from the bar I told you about.”  
  
You don’t panic as Carl had at the mention of law enforcement because you’re a good person. “Right, of course. I’m sorry. Erm. Did you guys want some coffee or something?”  
  
Any normal person can see that you’re offering a drink to the officials currently in your home. Your prince over there pipes up anyway, “babe can you get me a beer and something to eat?”  
  
What has he done to you Y/N? What the fuck has happened that you think this chump is all you deserve? The pained half smile on your face is bad enough but the tiny, “sure,” that falls from it kind of fucks me over. There’s none of that fire you’d had while trying to impress me with food. There’s not even the strict concentration you’d had while pretending to be a waitress. Your shoulders fall and you shuffle to the kitchen. You’re not going there because you love to cook or even want to go. You going to the kitchen because you don’t know how to make the asshole leave. Or you’re afraid of being alone if he does.  
  
I have to pretend it’s a cramp in my hand when I unfurl my fist. Stretching my fingers like they hurt from an ache and not because I’m aching to connect my fist with Carl’s face.  
  
“I’m gonna see if she needs a hand.” I’m already standing so Sam can’t stop me. I at least have the sense to give him a look like I’m going to go ask her some questions. I need to appease him to avoid too many questions myself later.  
  
I am going to ask you some things. Sam doesn’t need to know that they’re not about the case though.  
  
When I walk into your kitchen I instantly regret my decision. This is your space and I should have knocked. I offer my services immediately to make amends, “can I help with anything?”  
  
You must not get asked that a lot considering the confusion as you turn your head. “Erm, no it’s fine. I’m just… making some coffee.”  
  
All FBI pretense flies out the window as I nod at the bread on the counter. “See here’s where you’re confused, that right there is a sandwich.”  
  
“Would you believe I’m a chef?” If I wasn’t standing parallel with you now I’d miss the little smile on your face, the first one I’ve seen all day.  
  
“That depends on how good the sandwich is.”  
  
You laugh like you had the first time I’d come here to see you. I hadn’t heard it then, I’d only seen it and wondered what it sounded like. This time your hair tumbles over your shoulders as your head falls back. All the better to release the sound into the air. I don’t even care if they hear you next door. Let our cover go to hell if you keep laughing like that.  
  
“This is going to sound crazy, to an FBI agent anyway, but I swear I know you from somewhere.”  
  
You say it while stealing glances at me. And you steal glances at me while your hands keep moving, even with a knife in them. I didn’t expect it to come around so quickly, this test. This is when I find out if I’m crazy. Did we actually connect or is it all in my head? Somehow, I manage to keep my mouth shut, egging you on with a confused look like I’m trying to remember.  
  
“Oh my god. You came to the diner, right? Two slices of pie and didn’t rate my burger.” You're smug for remembering first.  
  
Now you’re pointing the knife in my direction with a grin on your face. If I didn’t know any better, I’m about to be murdered for my burger review.  
  
My head half cocks in your direction, “that was you?”  
  
It’s fucking heartbreaking, seeing the idea of me forgetting you and how you stumble over it. The same way you’d slumped when Carl spoke to you. Shit, I’m not him and you should know you’re better than that. Screw the car and your house, that’s what I need to work on. Making you believe you’re better.  
  
You manage to shake off the self-doubt, although you replace it with self-depreciation. “I’m normally a mess at work so I guess you might not recognize me.”  
  
“You weren’t a mess.” The space between us is a little smaller now to match the sincerity in my words. It’s the closest I’ve stood to you and the furthest away I want to be. “And that burger was top three, promise.”  
  
The light returns to your face. The smile becomes genuine. Your hands stop moving. That connection is there again. The one I know you feel too because you remembered me.  
  
And the coffee maker beeps in the background, interrupting.  
  
I’d be mad about it if this was the right time for something more, anything. It’s not. Carl’s still in the other room and you’re still attached to him like a tetherball. No matter how much he smacks you down, you swing around and come back for more. It’s ok because I’m here now and I know that this isn’t in my head. We connected over a crappy diner countertop and now I’m going to take care of everything. I’ll show you how you deserve to be treated Y/N.  
  
I’m going to save you.

* * *

“How do you know Kelly Gray?”  
  
I barge through the door he was stupid enough to open a crack. Carl doesn’t call out the fact that I’m not in my suit because I’ve established I’m the good guy already. But his face does lose all its color at the name. He's going straight past defensive to confrontational, “hey, you can’t just come in here!”  
  
“I can if you want to stay alive now let’s try this again. How do you know Kelly Gray?”  
  
My volume calls you from wherever you were like a moth to a flame. Or is my voice a beacon to you regardless of its loudness? Either way, you wander in, “what’s going on...?” There’s no concern in your voice because whether you know it or not you trust me, you're curious is all.  
  
Carl starts to crowd you before you can even say hello, which pisses me off. I haven’t heard you say hello yet. Not to me. Our meetings have been me as a customer and then an authority figure. This time could have been different. You might have said hello.  
  
“Babe, this jerk is just leaving. Don’t worry about it. Go back to the kitchen.”  
  
“I wasn’t in the… what did he say about your life being in danger?”  
  
I don’t know what’s worse. That this asshole assumes you’re always in the kitchen because that’s all he fucking knows about you. Or that he’s so goddamn stupid he’s trying to get rid of me when I’m here to save his life. For some reason.  
  
Of course, you’re the only one who can actually throw me out. It’s your house, not Carls. And you’re not going to because you want to hear what I have to say. You’re more concerned about Carl than he’s concerned about himself. Your big heart is another thing I add to the reasons you deserve better. The reasons you're so good.  
  
“Answer the damn question you son of a bitch.” Guess my FBI cover is shot to hell but at this point, I’m not losing any sleep over it. Sam’s hunting down the witch, I’m just making sure this idiot isn’t on the list for the same reason as her other hits.  
  
He looks at me pathetically, like I'll have mercy on him. But I don’t know what he’s going to say yet, so I’ve got no idea what hope he’s holding out for.  
  
“I knew _of_ her ok? The guys they all knew her. I- I just knew about her. Never met her.” Carl looks anywhere but at me while he lies.  
  
It all starts making sense now. I know what got those other guys killed. I know why Kelly went looking in magic books for revenge. And now I know Carl was involved.  
  
It would be kinder to encourage you out the room. Some case confidentiality thing. Then again, you need to hear this. You need the truth.  
  
Squaring up to Carl is easy, especially now I know he _really_ is a piece of shit. Not just for having you and making you so much smaller than you should be. Now I know Carl had you and still felt the need to get his dick wet somewhere else.  
  
“I can’t help you if lie to me. Now Kelly? Sure, she’s a little crazy but she also killed your friends. Can you think of any reason she might have it in for you as well, _Carl_? If not, I can leave right now but you better think real hard about your answer.”  
  
His eyes dart between the width of my shoulders wondering if he can take me before he decides he’s got no chance. Then he gulps slowly and for once, does the right thing. “Yeah, ok. I knew her.”  
  
In facing off with this prick I almost forgot you were there. He’s trained you into silence in your own home. Carl hasn’t forgotten because he trusts in your constant presence; quiet and dutiful, always. That’s why he doesn’t flinch when you speak.  
  
“Who is she? What did the other guys- or you, what did you do?”  
  
He looks at you for a good minute. His body is still facing me, still ready to fight me if necessary. He’s looking at you like it might be his last chance to. Could it be Carl actually has some sense hidden away under the seven layers of dumbass?  
  
He doesn’t answer your question until he looks back at me. He tells me the answer because he can’t tell you.    
  
“Kelly Gray is _just_ a hooker that we all, well, you know. But Andy he- he didn’t pay up and then we all wanted to...things got out of control.” His voice is too hard and despite what he did he’s looking at me like it’s my fault for making him spit it out.  
  
You gasp. It’s a tiny noise, nothing really. Although in the wake of Carl's confession, it might as well be a foghorn.  
  
Where I’d normally be yelling at this charmer I look at you instead because I need to check on you. Your chin wobbles and there’s a quiver in your lip. All I want to do take you away from him, but still, you needed to know. It’s the only way you’ll ever move on from this bag of dicks who actually paid money to cheat on you.  
  
“Y/N…” He starts like there’s something he could say that would make this better.  
  
You hold up a hand to stop him. He doesn’t just stop talking. He clutches at his throat suddenly, clawing at it actually, like he’s trying to pry it open from the outside.  
  
“I… can’t…. breathe…” he wheezes. He’s hard to understand but not difficult to work out.  
  
You step back, eyes widening.  
  
Carl’s sudden asphyxiation lights the spark of anger in me that I’ve been holding back. I've seen too much of this case. I've seen what the other guys did. And suddenly I'm pissed. “Is this what you did to her? Try to choke her? Your buddies all died the way they lived. They died doing what they did to Kelly.”  
  
But he is still choking. Unable to answer me or even react. He can’t feel guilty while he’s dying and I have to let him slip from my grasp. I don’t often root for the witch, by that I mean I never do. But in this case, she might deserve a little revenge.  
  
A blur rushes past me and steps between me and him. I realize it’s you. You pat his back and try to do all the things people do when someone is choking for non-magical reasons. “We’ve got to help him.”  
  
My silence doesn’t slow you down as you try to wrap your arms around him and Heimlich the spell out. The fact that nothing is helping doesn’t seem to slow your roll either.  
  
“Y/N!” The snap of my tone gets your attention.  
  
“We _need_ to help him!” You plead with a desperation that I resent. Desperation Carl doesn't deserve.  
  
You’re right though. I need to save them all. The good, the bad and the fucking disgusting. Looking into your worried face is how I remember that I save people. That’s why I’m here in the first place.  
  
“Y/N, I don’t have time to explain but this is a spell. We need to find the hex bag to stop it. It’ll be hidden somewhere, an um, a small material bag.”  
  
“What? What are you talking about?”  
  
Carl’s still standing there choking, fading at the edges. I grab you for your attention over him. Both hands on your shoulders trying to will some sense in you. At the same time, I'm trying to remember the reasons why I have to let you go eventually. “Y/N if you want to save his life I need you to look. Look around anywhere something small could be hidden. Move. Now.”  
  
I hate barking orders at you but I’d hate it more if it didn’t work. Luckily it does. You nod and start pulling books out of the small bookshelf in the corner of the room.  
  
This is your first rodeo, your last too if I get my way, so you have no idea what you’re looking for. You’re destroying more of your stuff than you need to while Carl’s gargles are the soundtrack to the room.  
  
I know what I’m doing. My fingers feel down the edges of your sofa cushions while I text Sam that Carl is target number four. My hands sweep all the small spaces quickly. Behind the back of your DVR, I finally feel it. A lumpy piece of soft material.  
  
I pull it out in my clenched fist, still out of sight, not that you’re looking in my direction. It’s heavier than normal but that might be because of the guy this particular hex bag is trying to kill. The lighter in my pocket is heavier still, it’s cold and unforgiving in my other hand.  
  
God knows how long I stand there trapped in indecision. The metal of my lighter digs into my skin for how hard I’m pressing at the cap, teetering on the edge of flicking it open. Deep down I know I shouldn’t be hesitating. A flick of my thumb and it’ll be over, Carl will be saved.  
  
But what about you?  
  
How will I save you if he’s still alive? After this, you won’t be able to leave him even after what he admitted. You’re too damn loyal.  
  
Carl’s close to the end now. He’s been struggling for oxygen too long. His skin is taking on a sickly color. I have seconds to save him, seconds. And in those seconds I figure it out. I figure everything out.  
  
“You found anything Y/N?” I holler while the hex bag gets tucked into my pocket, my lighter returned to the other.  
  
You shake your head, fear drenching you head to toe. I’ve forgotten how harrowing this must be for a civilian. Not just the dying person in front of you but trying to comprehend that there’s nothing you can do to save him. Only I can save him, and I have no intentions of doing that. _My_ decision is set in stone. Sam might be able to help but he’d have to be driving a knife into the witch as we speak. I doubt he is considering the phone in my pocket beeps.  
  
Even Sam knows not to text and stab.  
  
Carl’s on his knees now and trying to keep himself up. “Oh god, he’s going to- I can’t watch this.” You turn to face the wall and wrap yourself up in your own arms. Hugging yourself as you collapse against the wallpaper. You can’t move out of the room, but you can’t watch so instead you exist in this limbo where you’re forced to listen.  
  
It kills me you didn’t come to me, but I get it. You’re not ready for that yet. I can wait and be patient because eventually, you’ll fall into me when you’re scared.  
  
He takes one last shuddering attempt at sucking in air. It’s worse than his other efforts because even he seems to know that this one will be his last. There’s a noise that comes out of his throat that’s more than a closed windpipe. It’s hopeless and on the brink of death.  
  
Carl is about to die, and you’re curled into the wall, so no one is watching the small smile on my face. It’s barely there but it’s there enough. A witch killed him, end of story. I just made sure that it happened. I made sure of it for you.

* * *

At some point, you get up and walk into the kitchen without looking back. I call Sam, he’s killed the witch because it had to be done no matter her reasons. I tell him Carl is dead and Sam sounds frustrated at having lost someone. Even after I tell him what Carl did, Sam still says he didn’t deserve to die like that.  
  
I knew Sam wouldn’t understand which is why I don’t tell him about the hex bag I'm carrying around.  
  
For the second time, I come into the kitchen without knocking. You’re sitting at the table staring into the darkness of the room. Only when I make it to the other side of the table do I see the silent tears rolling down your face.  
  
“Y/N?” I don’t know how far into nothingness you’re looking so I announce myself despite standing in front of you.  
  
Sadness has settled in your bones. I want to ask if this is for Carl or because you've experienced something that most people never do. I don’t ask because I don’t want to scare you. Or I'm afraid of the answer. Probably both.  
  
There’s bottled water in the refrigerator and I have no idea where you keep your booze. You need something stronger but more importantly, you need something. You need anything to do with your hands while I tell you what I'm about to.  
  
“We don’t need to talk about everything, but we need to talk about some of it.” I’m trying to be balanced, not too soft and not too cold. I might be coming off as unfeeling.  
  
“You said a witch killed him. A witch?” The calm in your voice is eerie although you’re not looking at me so it's slightly less creepy. Instead, you’re watching your nails pick at the label on your plastic bottle.  
  
“Yeah. My brother took care of her.” It’s the safest way to say he ganked Kelly. You’ve had enough death for one day. “But not in time. I’m sorry.” I’m not. “Witches are real and this one wanted revenge.”  
  
You take a minute to absorb this. “Your FBI badge isn’t real.”  
  
I’d chuckle if it was appropriate right now. You're not ready to joke about these things yet. “No, but this is what I do. Hunting and killing bad guys, bad things. Sometimes I need to pretend to get the job done.”  
  
“What do I need to do now?”  
  
You’re in shock, I get that, but you’re handling this too well and it’s freaking me out a little. I’m waiting for you to break so that I can pick up the pieces, but you refuse to fall apart.  
  
“Let me walk out of here and then call the cops. His death- it’ll look natural. They’ll take him away.”  
  
“And then what? I wake up tomorrow morning and have coffee where he… I’m sorry that’s not. That’s- it’s not your fault. I-I’m not your responsibility. I’m sorry.”  
  
Oh, what you don’t know. You’ve been my responsibility since the minute I saw you. And you haven’t once questioned me walking out of here. That’s a given. You don’t understand what’s happening and your world has changed in a way that you don't understand. But you trust that I’m the good guy in the same way I trust you not to break me.  
  
There’s a long silence. You drink some of your water swallowing more than necessary. Making sure you still can. I try to explain that the witch can’t hurt you in the same way she did Carl, hex bags don’t work like that. They're personal. But I can’t. Those aren’t the words on the tip of my tongue. The words I want to say are a big step forward. Too fast and too much. More than I would ever think about saying to anyone else.  
  
You’re not anyone. You’re you. Y/N. You’re different and you're mine. Even if you reject me now I’ll know it’s because I asked too quickly. Rejection now will be nothing we can’t overcome in the future.  
  
“If you want my brother and I, the guy you met, my partner? That’s my brother Sam. We have a place you could stay. Nothing weird, it’s just a safe place. Over in Lebanon, a military bunker. Might be good to get away for a few days?”  
  
I’m not expecting a yes or anything close to it. I sound like a horny teenager or a puppy trying to rut against your leg. Your boyfriend, as much as it pains me to call him that, died in your living room twenty minutes ago.  
  
“Do you do this for all the girls?”  
  
It’s almost like there’s not a dead body next door, “only the special ones.”  
  
“I know it’s crazy to even be thinking about it but a few days away would be good. I guess compared to witches a military bunker sounds normal”  
  
The word ‘good’ pains you to say and again I’m left wondering if you’re a little naïve. You have to be since you’re accepting my offer. I know I’m safe but how do you know that? Y/N is this why you’re mine? Because you need me to protect you from a world you trust too easily.  
  
Suddenly ending up with Carl makes a lot more sense. It wasn’t only loneliness, you’re too trusting, too forgiving.  
  
This once I’ll let it slide since it works in my favor.

* * *

Sam only asks once why we’re taking you home. He asks while we’re waiting down the street for the police to finish everything.  
  
I tell him you need someplace safe to recover and he doesn’t say whatever he wants to in response.  
  
It’s hours before we’re on the road and an hour and a half till we're home. The journey is familiar to me now. You don’t marvel at the bunker as much as most people do but you’re dead on your feet. Swaying like a breeze might knock you into unconsciousness.  
  
I put you up in a room next to mine. You thank me not knowing the selfish reasons for my decision.  
  
The jokes on me. Having you so close means I hear you cry yourself to sleep.  
  
I want to tell you that you don’t need to worry. Everything here out will get better Y/N. I'll make sure of it.


	4. WITH

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How many times will Dean have to fix your life?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am very sorry for how long this took guys. Forgive me?

In the morning I bring you toast. You look like the last thing you want to do is eat it, which worries me. But I've gotta draw the line somewhere and shoving food down your throat feels like a step too far. Then again, I'm not even sure if it's you on that bed. Knees in your chest and a hollow shadow framing your eyes. You finally broke. Out of sight and locked in this room you fell apart, and I missed it. Missing it makes everything harder. I can help you if I see it happen but now I'm nothing but a stranger standing here holding toast. Now you'll have to heal on your own.  
   
You need this time though. You need it to figure out you're better off without him. Grieving is important even if Carl is, or was a complete asshat. If you don't grieve you can't move on and I need you to be able to move on. I can only show you how perfectly we fit together, you need your eyes open to see it.  
   
The toast is still there when I bring you water, and the water is untouched when I come back with soup hours later. Sam offers to bring you some dinner in the evening and I lie to him, telling him I already have. I don't want him scaring you is all. You don't know him. You know me.  
   
"Dean?"  
   
It's what, the second time you've said my name out loud? The first time, in the diner, you'd been this flirty chef arguing with me about food. And now you're this sad little thing with a voice so distorted from disuse that it doesn't even sound like you.  
   
"Yeah Y/N?" You're not ready for a nickname.  
   
You clear your throat, "I wanted to say thank you for taking me in like this. I'm sure you're probably used to… to witches? But…"  
   
"Witches suck. You never get all the way used to that."  
   
Carl sucked too. Try to remember that Y/N. Remember how he cheated on you. Him and his buddies with the same hooker. Don't make him out to be a martyr.  
   
You suck in a shallow breath letting the air steady you and force a smile to your face. Small, encouraging and not enough to reach your eyes. "Will you tell me about what you do?"  
   
It's too much for day one. We're standing here still shy of twenty-four hours since Carl died in your living room. Since you heard it and I didn't stop it. I've got decades of nightmares that I could tell you but right now even a simple ghost story will keep you awake at night. I want you to sleep and dream. I want you to stay you.  
   
Maybe I'm selfish too. Maybe for a little while longer, I want to be just Dean, the guy you met in a diner who likes pie. Or as close to him as I can get.  
   
"I'll make you a deal, sweetheart." OK, that one slips out. "You eat this delicious grilled cheese I made you and when you're ready I'll tell you anything you want to know."  
   
Within reason. I won't tell you about the hex bag sitting in the top drawer of my desk. Tossed in there amongst a few pictures I keep. When was I going to burn it? Sitting in the Impala with Sam so I can endure all his judgment? And then you were with us because I brought you home.  
   
You look at me like you want to argue. Your chin sticks out a bit, all hard and stubborn. There's fight left in you, under all those jagged edges and I fished it out of you. The diner chef is still in there. The one with fire in her eyes. The one who wanted me to look at her curves and wasn't shy about it.  
   
She's the one who takes a big whiff of the melted cheese goodness in my hand and she's the one who gives in with this tiny nod.  
   
You haven't eaten all day so the first three bites don't touch the sides. My arms cross over my chest while I lean against the door watching you. As weird as it is I can't help watching every bite. Making sure you swallow. I'm not saying grilled cheese is the cure for your emotional turmoil. Except anyone watching you devour it right now might be hard pressed to argue otherwise.  
   
When was the last time someone looked after you Y/N? If I didn't know any better no one ever has.

* * *

"Y/N still holed up?" Sam might as well be asking if there's coffee in the pot for the normality in his voice.  
   
I look up from the diner Facebook page. I'd only been looking for the phone number, so I could call and tell them you won't be in for a few days, at least. "Yeah, in her room. Why?"  
   
" _Her_ room? Don't you think it's time we talked about this dude?" He goes from zero to shaking a stressed hand through his hair pretty damn quick.  
   
Shit. I forgot about Sam and his dumb questions that he's been squirreling away for days now.  
   
"I mean, not that I mind but what, we're bringing vics back here now?"  
   
"Y/N's not just another vic." I bite out on a growl. It's a knee jerk reaction to a potential threat to you. I have to swallow it down, pinching the bridge of my nose because this is Sam. Not another douchebag trying to hurt you. "She's not some random victim. She's… we met at the diner remember?"  
   
He doesn't remember. Not at first. He tries but you aren't the first thing on his mind and a part of me is grateful for that. His face scrunches, smoothes out and then finally my dramatic baby brother rolls his eyes at me. "She brought you two pieces of pie?"  
   
It's offensive if anything. His implication that you won me over with two pieces of pie. He's trying to belittle our story before it's started. We're not even at the good part yet, the part where you fall for me.  
   
"That's not- yeah she did- but that's not why I-"  
   
"You like her?" Sam interrupts, astonished that I could.  
   
_Like_ sounds as if I pushed you down in the playground. _Like_ is not enough for you. But there's no way to explain to Sam without telling him everything. That would include all the things he won't approve of. Since there's no way to explain, I don't. I deflect his attention instead.  
   
"So, what if I do?" It's not what I want to say. I want to tell him about Lawrence and how you were made for me. He'll understand if I tell him about all the things that make you different. Again, explanations take a backseat. I'll have to wait until we're official and these things can slip out as pieces of a normal conversation.  
   
He leans back a little, taking time to make up his mind. And when I think the world might end before he speaks again, a smile spreads across his face. "Nothing, it's nice is all. You've got a little crush."  
   
"I do not have a crush."  
   
"Aww look at that, you're blushing."  
   
I'm not but Sam is buying this. He's on board with the idea of you staying because he thinks I've reverted to a preteen with a boner. He makes it all too easy to play along, he hands me my alibi with a bow on, "shut up Sammy."  
   
"Ok, ok," he pushes up from his chair opposite and makes like he's giving himself up. He throws off this big, over the top shrug. "Just nice to see you… you know."  
   
I know. He's doesn't need to say any more than that. I'm happy. I'm happy even if you're tucked up in a room feeling sad for something that I want you to forget already. Because at least you're safe. At least you're where I can keep an eye on you.

* * *

Sam is on a supply run because he's not stupid enough to think I'd leave with you here. He didn't even bother to ask me if I wanted to go.  
   
So, when you stumble into the room like a baby deer learning to walk for the first time, I'm the only one who gets to enjoy the sight. "You ok there, sweetheart?"  
   
"I got lost about ten times and I still don't know where I am." There's that funny little bite back. I missed it. I don't for a second think you're fixed but you're learning to hide away the dark stuff.  
   
I want this to be the only bad thing you need to bury. Bury this for me Y/N and I'll keep the other shit away.  
   
"Guess I'll need to give you a tour today since you're up and at 'em."  
   
"About that," the way you draw out your words gets my attention. It's bad news obviously because when I try to find your eyes and you're aimlessly looking around the room. "I was thinking maybe it's time for me to go home."  
   
Shit. That's not how this is supposed to go. How can I finish fixing you if you're not here?  
   
I need to pretend this isn't as panic-inducing as it actually is, "are you sure? You're welcome as long as you want."  
   
Longer even.  
   
"Oh my god. Please don't think I'm not beyond grateful. Honestly, I don't know how I would have coped at home... but I can't hide away forever. I don't _want_ to hide away forever anyway. I have a job, at least I hope I still do and…"  
   
"Oh yeah. You're all good. I called and let them know you'd be out for a few days."  
   
That wasn't supposed to come out. It's weird. I know it's weird. I'm some guy who invited you to my secret bunker and now I've called your work without telling you. I wasn't planning on telling you I called them. But Y/N, you've been in that room for three days. What was I supposed to do? Let you get fired?  
   
"You called work for me?" There's no anger in the question. When I finally dare to look at you to gauge how weirded out you are, a barely-there smile sits on your face.  
   
Again, with the being surprised if anyone does anything for you, god it's going to take time to get you over that. "Couldn't having you get fired before you finally make the perfect burger."  
   
My answer is enough of a throwback to your old self that you don't question my behavior.  
   
"I've already made the perfect burger, maybe just not for you."  
   
A hand over my chest and a pout on my lips. "You're breaking my heart."  
   
You laugh. An actual honest to goodness laugh that rings like a bell, "wouldn't want to do that."  
   
I could stay wrapped up in this light conversation for hours. I'd never get tired of it. Hearing you say you don't want to break my heart is a bonus. That's the promise I need, you see that about me without even trying. And I'm what you need. We're already in sync.  
   
"Stay." The request falls from my mouth without permission making me seem desperate. You actually frown a little at the word, leaving me to scramble for a recovery. "Just for tonight, I mean. I'll give you the tour, show you my awesome kitchen and drive you home in the morning?"  
   
It makes sense. It's past noon already, we're already head first into the afternoon. And I'm being selfish again. I want time with you where you're not in your room on a self-imposed lockdown. I'm being impatient too. Because if I let you slip through my fingers it'll be an undetermined amount of time before I get you back again.  
   
"How awesome is this kitchen?"  
   
"Oh honey, you won't want to leave."  
   
Or, at least, that's what I'm hoping.

* * *

You'd marveled at the kitchen, rambled on about the stove being a classic. Scrunched your face at the ingredients on offer. I take note of everything. I'll make sure everything is how you want it next time. If it had been perfect this time maybe you wouldn't have left.  
   
You're a good actress. When I drop you off home and walk you to the door like the gentleman you deserve there's hardly a flicker on your face. At least Carl had died without leaving bloodstains all over the place. Looking around your living room it's hard to tell he was ever here. Does that help Y/N? Does that help you pretend that you're going to be ok? You don't have to pretend for me, even if you still do. Your tone is forced, too high and there's a tremble in your smile when you see me out.  
   
Don't worry about being alone. I'm not going far.  
   
After you think I leave you try to avoid parts of your own home. Phone calls are made standing on the opposite side of the room. For a while, you disappear from my sight completely. Holed up in other places that aren't _that_ room.  
   
I don't often stick around and see this part. Sam and I usually haul ass out of town before the dust settles so I've got no clue if this is normal behavior. Watching you makes me realize how many other people we've left to feel scared in their own homes. Countless families worried about a monster they don't know how to fight while they try to sleep at night. It makes motel hopping all my life seem like a blessing. Or a necessity.  
   
You're doing so good though. You keep forcing yourself to stand in different spots for as long as you can. I can see the way you pick somewhere to stay until awkwardness, or fear, washes over you and you retreat again. Over and over you try, shoulders locked and back straight, determined to get over this mess. It's only your first day home. And you won't even be here forever, not that you know that yet. But you're sick of being scared and you're training yourself out of it.  
   
Of course, I should have known that the perfect girl for me would have been strong like this. Determined. More than what you seem.  
   
Sam texts me and asks me if you got home alright. That's not what he means. He wants to know where I am. Why I'm still missing. He doesn't know that I'm too caught up in you to have lost track of the time. Sam thinks I've dropped you off and then fallen off the face of the earth, so I lie to him, again. I tell him I'm at a bar because he'll write that off as typical me behavior.  
   
It takes an hour to drive home when I tear myself away. I'm quicker now because the journey is becoming routine. I know where that one speed trap is to avoid and the rest of the way my foot is down. The faster I drive the quicker I can come back to you.  
   
Sam's on his laptop when the bunker door closes behind me. He barely looks up when he tells me what he thinks is good news.  
   
"Hey, you should sleep it off. I think I found us a case."  
   
Well, fuck. If I hadn't been sober already that right there would have done it. So much for my plans.

* * *

It takes four fucking days to kill the werewolf pack in Salt Lake City. Never mind the fact that it's the opposite direction to you and every mile we drive makes my mouth itch. They'd been good at covering their tracks, dragging the whole messy business out. Sure, we've worked cases that go on longer. Sure, what's four days in the grand fucking scheme of things?  
   
Four days is all it takes for something to happen to you if I'm not there.  
   
When we take the last of them out my silver knife ends up buried deep in the pack leaders heart. I make sure to give it an extra twist for us both. This asshole kept me from you. All I've had for four days are a few facebook updates between the constant worry.  
   
The first day it's a picture. You in your whites brandishing a big ass knife to the camera. What is it with you and waving knives around like they're not sharp? Then again, you're my girl so it kinda fits. The caption on the picture says you're back at work and people should come on down to eat.  
   
Looks to me like you're asking for trouble. Advertising your location out to every creep in a thirty-mile radius. My eye starts twitching a little after that.  
   
Then the next day you post a status update that you're thinking about looking for a new car. Goddammit Y/N, you can't wait until these werewolves are done? I've seen your taste in cars and this is not a decision you should be making without me.  
   
What's worse is the radio silence that follows that one. People comment on your update with links to used cars for sale, but you don't reply to any of them. Which means I spend the last two days of the hunt with no idea what's going on in that head of yours. No clue if you're ok.

The last night in town you put me out of my misery. I'm wiping the blood off my blade and already pretty relieved to be heading home when my phone dings in my pocket. I may not be a social media guy but I know how to set up notifications. A weight I hadn't realized had been crushing my chest disappears with the sound.  
   
I wait until Sam is jogging over to Baby for the lighter fluid he forgot to take out my phone. My thumb is still bloody leaving a thick red thumbprint on the screen, it becomes a messy streak when I scroll. You've shared a video of Dr. Sexy MD. It's some dumb viral compilation but you've added a caption; _Judge me all you want but I swear those COWBOY BOOTS._  
   
You're alive and more than that you're fucking perfect.  
  
"What are you smiling at?" Sam asks on his way back.  
  
It's pitch black. How does he even see my goofy grin?  
  
"Nothing. Glad to be done with all this." I gesture to the haul of dead werewolves.  
   
Sam wants to stay tonight and drive fresh tomorrow which is the dumbest idea I've ever heard. I tell him as much. He huffs because he has no idea why I want to get home so bad. He doesn't need to understand as long as he shuts up and takes his shift driving while I get my four hours. I need to be fresh as a daisy when we get back since I'll be driving to you the second we're back.  
   
It's a little after ten when we finally roll in the next day. Day five of not having seen you. Too long. It's not enough to know that you're ok, I need to see that you're ok.  
   
I don't even bother with an excuse when we get back to the bunker. I unload my gear same as always and then I start to leave again. When Sam asks where I'm going my eloquent answer is, "food."  
   
Not a lie this time. I'm heading to this diner I know. One with the cutest chef around.  
   
I've missed you which is why I'm going to the diner. Normally I'd avoid it because there's nowhere to hide but today I don't care if you see me. Hell, I want you to see me. It's been five goddamn days now, maybe it's time that we stopped playing games.  
   
It only takes me an hour to get there. I turn up as the breakfast crowd is leaving but before the lunch rush really starts. Despite there being tables I walk straight up to the counter. Obviously, Carol is there, smiling like there's nothing weird about my determined stare.  
   
"What can I get for you, honey?" She asks with that familiar raspy voice.  
   
"French toast, side of bacon, coffee and some facetime with the chef please." It sounds a lot more romantic in my head. I haven't really taken into account that Carol has no idea what the fuck is going on. She doesn't know who I am, which chef I'm talking about or even that I know you. All of that is pretty evident in the confusion etched into her wrinkles. The food part of my order is written down, but she's faltered over the rest. I guess I'll have to elaborate. "Uh- is Y/N working today?"  
   
That she understands. "Sure thing, let me get her." She wanders through the door I know leads to the kitchen and I hear Carol's muffled, "Y/N, someone's asking for ya hon."  
   
Carol doesn't reappear immediately but I'm the only one at the counter and she's put my order in. Both my orders. So, it's no surprise when you burst through the door first. Like you had that first day.  
   
Your face cycles through shock and confusion, settling on an easy smile, "Dean?"  
   
I love it when you say that.  
   
"Hey, sweetheart. How you doing?" I'm so calm and collected that even I believe my act. But I did have the drive to get my shit together.  
   
You close the gap and lean on the counter, putting your weight on your forearms and leaning in. I almost expect a kiss for how close you get. Instead, it's a quiet whisper, "what are you doing here?"  
   
I'm not offended because you know what I do. You probably think I'm working a case, if I remember I'll apologize later for scaring you. Right now, I'm too distracted by having you so close. The warmth radiating from your skin makes mine glow.  
   
"In the neighborhood." Lie. "And I was hankering for something to eat. Thought I'd stop in and see how you're doing, maybe give you a second chance."  
   
See I know you Y/N. I know you better than you know yourself. And you react exactly how I expect. Luckily, I don't find predictability boring, instead, it's a comfort to know what makes you tick. You pull your head back half confused that I'm checking in on you because you don't know what you're worth. Mingled with the confusion you're half frustrated by my challenge. You still want my approval and I still haven't given it to you. Now I'm being mean, dangling the bait in front of your face.  
   
"What did you order?"  
   
"French toast and bacon."  
   
The smile becomes a grin. Mischievous and confident. "I hope you're prepared for the best thing you've ever had in your mouth."  
   
My gaze flicks down your body and I almost make a joke. The second-best thing. But I've not had the pleasure of tasting you yet so my reply will have to wait for now. I'll put it with the hundred other things I've held back until you know me as well as I know you.  
   
What I do say is more suitable for the acquaintances you think we are. "Good luck with that."  
   
You push yourself off the countertop worrying your bottom lip. If you're actually concerned about your abilities your eyes don't show it. You stare me down.  
   
_Game on._

* * *

I'll admit the food is a work of fucking art. It shows up in front of me looking like it's intended for the cover of a cookbook and tastes, somehow, even better. I have to remind myself it's just French toast and bacon. Of course, it's not _just_ either of those things.  
   
You're a goddamn magician. Although a needy one. It's too convenient the way that you saunter back from the kitchen the very second my plate is clear.  
   
"What's the verdict then?"  
   
I can't prove you were watching me, but I take a gamble, your timing can't be that good. "Were you watching me eat?"  
   
Your face flushes for being caught, "maybe."  
   
"You little stalker." I tease hoping to keep you pink.  
   
"Fine. I'm a creep but stop avoiding the question. What do ya think?"  
   
You've been begging for this since day one and I don't deny you another second. I finally give you what you want. "That was awesome."  
   
It's not enough for you, "Are you one of those guys who says awesome a lot or is that an actual compliment?"  
   
The truth is a little of both. I'm not telling you that. "Trust me, sweetheart, it's a compliment."  
   
"Well," you begin. It's the start of an end, I can tell. It means you're satisfied and you're heading back to work.  
   
I'm not ready for this to be over, even for today. "Can I take you out to dinner?"  
   
"What?" You stutter.  
   
"You, me, dinner. It won't be as good as this but we can let someone else cook for the night." I'm not sure how I'll handle it if you turn me down at this point. I know I'm rushing but the moment felt right so the question slipped out. A lot of things seem to slip out around you. And now I'm shitting bricks because what if you say no? This is why I pick up women in bars and forgo the pretense of a date.  
   
Your pause only convinces me you're about to say no. I'd forgotten that you're not where I am yet. Carl died a little over a week ago. Even if he was a cheating bag of dicks you must have felt something for him. There's this fear on your face and as fleeting as it is I still see it. And yet you manage to surprise me, "I'd love to. I'm- I mean I don't know when you were thinking of- I'm working late tonight but I'll get off early tomorrow?"  
   
You don't just want to go on a date, you're actually nervous. You want this. You want me.  
   
"Tomorrow night. Pick you up at 7?"  
   
You stumble backward like now that I've set a time it's finally real. You duck your head and nod. If you're not the most adorable thing I've ever seen.  
   
"Perfect. That's perfect. But I've got to…" your hand motions to the kitchen. I'm not sure I should send you back there this flustered, still I can't help the wink I throw you. It draws out another smile as you disappear.  
   
The diner is getting busy behind me. Tables of conversations all mingling together to create this loud hum. I hadn't noticed till you left. Why would I notice anything else while you're in the room?  
   
Tomorrow will be good and you're working late tonight. All I need to do now is make sure you get home ok. Then tomorrow I can actually spend some time with Sammy because you'll be safe at work, and then safe with me.

* * *

The parking lot out the back of the diner is big considering. Purpose built for the place and poorly lit. Pretty perfect really. I can sit the Impala in a far corner and disappear.  
   
Y/N, baby, why is it always you? I'd been satisfied with our plans. I'd only come back to make sure you got home and locked your door tight. That's it. I might be anxious for being away for so long. Or you do this to me, you bring this protective side out of me. Either way, I was seeing you safe so I could get some sleep.  
   
And now there's this. Or him.  
   
It's always some sleazebag with you. Not that I blame you. You can't help it if you attract them. You can't help being a dangerous combination of beautiful and trusting. All the things that made me notice you are exactly the things that lure in creeps. If anything, I should have expected this, I guess.  
   
To think, if I hadn't come back.  
   
Everything seems fine at first, from a distance. You and one of the younger waitresses are leaving the backdoor together. He follows behind you, locking up and honestly? It looks like any three regular co-workers's having a conversation. The girl even laughs at something you say before wandering off to her car. At least someone else is laughing at your jokes, huh?  
   
Then the problem presents itself because fucking hell Y/N why is your car parked so much further away? Of course, this slime ball parked himself next to you. You gave him the perfect opportunity.  
   
Hidden in the darkness I see the ways your shoulders tense when he wraps an arm around you. Apparently telling a joke that required him to touch you.  
   
He shouldn't be fucking touching you. You are not _his_ to touch.  
   
It's the way your body recoils that makes my blood boil. The way your face winces has me holding the steering wheel so tightly the whites of my knuckles look ready to pop. This guy can't take a hint and you're too sweet to tell him. My hand hovers over the handle of my car door. Screw the explanation of why I'm there. I'm ready to tear this guy a new one.  
   
I don't jump quite yet. You look so relieved as you finally reach that corner of tarmac that separates your cars. This is where you go your separate ways. He still doesn't see how awkward you are. Except this son of a bitch probably does, he just doesn't care.  
   
I'm willing you to walk away and I can see you want to. It's not for lack of trying. It's for lack of this prick getting a clue. 

He takes another step. Too close, too quickly. Then his hand settles on your arm. He's testing the waters and you're standing there probably frozen in fear. This guy is your boss and you like your job, I think anyway. My jaw is probably ticking in time to the beat of your panicked heart.

His hand squeezes your arm and then slides upwards, his thumb brushing over your cheek. I find the door that time. It opens with a squeak neither of you hears across the empty space. Or you might hear it. It might be what spurs you into action, being watched. Either way in the next second you jump back into the metal of your car. Your hands form a barrier between you both, flat where they would be pushing against his chest if you could stand to touch him.

You book it to your car from there, leaving your new stalker speechless. While I'm proud of you for stopping this before you can truly sink back into your old patterns of falling for losers there's still a little problem I find myself needing to deal with.

* * *

Did you know that in the great state of Kansa's if a car is left by the side of the road for more than 48 hours it gets towed? After that letters are sent. Then after 30 days, they auction the car off. This is important. Kansas will destroy my evidence for me.  
  
There's nothing strange about being the only two cars on this particular stretch of road. It's early evening and the sun has already begun going down, plus it's a quiet stretch; used by those few who need it. When I flash my lights in his mirror it's still not crazy because that stuff happens all the time.  
  
He pulls over because he doesn't have a reason not to. I'm one guy. I pull up behind him I ask if he's got jumper cables since I think my battery's dying. If he was nervous then it disappears at such a goddamn reasonable request. That's what makes this whole thing go so smoothly. My words are ordinary enough that he doesn't question the fact that you only jump start a dead battery. So, he's an idiot as well as a fucking creep.  
  
He's hunched over his trunk and wading through the crap he keeps in there when it happens. I happen. His head slams into the car beneath him. Enough to hurt and see the stars that haven't finished coming out yet.  
  
I didn't want to spill blood. Blood is messy and telling. Blood makes this a murder instead of an abandoned car. Nobody misses a monster but this guy is a regular joe. He might be a creep who inappropriately touches his staff; doesn't mean he'll disappear easily. I mean, I'll be making sure he disappears, it just needs to happen the right way.  
  
No blood, which is why I don't hit his head hard enough to spill any. Although that also means he's not unconscious. He's dazed and confused as he falls to the ground. It only takes seconds before he's looking up at me from the floor. Anger trying to mix with confusion like oil and water.  
  
Unlike him I'm calm. This isn't something I decided to do ten minutes ago. This is something I knew I would do for you the minute I met you. This is all for you. He sealed his own fate the moment he touched you. God, it probably wasn't even the first time. It was just the first time I _saw_ him lay hands.  
  
He finally spits out something, "what the fuck man?"  
  
Not what I'd pick for last words but that's just me.  
  
The road is still quiet. It's a little darker now. The sky is a few shades blacker. Hardly noticeable to people who aren't wondering if it's enough to get away with murder at the side of the road.  
  
It is enough though. Between the evening shadows and dragging him out of sight, I shouldn't have any problems at all. He's struggling but still pretty out of it, until my weight pins him down and my hands wrap around his throat.  
  
See Y/N, I don't want to do this. Not really. I get no joy out of feeling his airways close under my grip, even if he got in our way. His scrambling hands trying to push at my arms only remind me that I'm killing a normal, albeit sleazy, guy. This isn't a monster that's killed innocent people. This guy is the innocent. So, no, I'm not enjoying this. This isn't for my satisfaction. It's for you.  
  
Saving you. Hunting assholes. My new business.  
  
Feeling his windpipe tense and release against my thumbs, fighting for air, it's all for you. All I see is you in my mind, not him as I end whatever pathetic life he leads. I know you don't know this yet Y/N, baby, but I'll do anything for you.  
  
Less than thirty seconds and he stops fighting. His arms fall limp by his sides. Another twenty seconds and his eyes roll back until they close. He's out but he's not dead and knowing the difference is one of the many reasons I'll get away with this. I know things. All the better to protect you.  
  
It takes three minutes for the brain, even one as small as his, to die without oxygen. I keep pressing my weight on his throat for five. The last thing I need is him waking up in the trunk.  
  
There's dirt on my knees when I get up which is fucking perfect. And there's no goddamn time now. I'm sure you'll understand but I don't want you to have to understand. I want everything to be perfect. Tonight I show you how you deserve to be treated. Showing up looking like a kindergartener who scrapped his knees is not how this goes.  
  
Dick face, probably should have learned his name, goes into the truck nice and easy since he's not stiff yet. So, that's a win at least. I'm still cautious though since you're going to be in the car. His hands cuffed behind his back and ankles stuck together. Duct tape over his mouth even if his skin is too cold to be living.  
  
Can't take any risks tonight Y/N, not when I'm picking you up for our first date.

* * *

I'd changed jeans in a gas station bathroom and washed the death off my hands; I'm respectful like that.  
  
It was never going to be enough.  
  
You come to the door in this dress that floats on the air as you walk and fuck me, cowboy boots. Brown, worn and weathered cowboy boots. And as if that wasn't enough you're sporting this smile like you've been waiting all day for me. I'm the luckiest son of a bitch to walk the planet and all I can think to do is blow out this silent whistle on an out breath.  
  
"Sorry, I had no idea how nice to dress and... is it too much?"  
  
I know it hasn't been long, not long enough to touch you, but I reach out for your chin anyway, lifting your face to look at me. "Don't you ever apologize for looking this good sweetheart."  
  
Another smile for me. Tonight, it's all about how many of those I can earn.  
  
You slide into the passenger seat and cross one leg over the other. You know exactly what you're doing. How your hem bounces up your thigh a little. If your plan is to make me question taking you for food, instead of taking you to a bar to drink till we're naked, well done. I'm an idiot.  
  
I actually scoured yelp for the restaurant we do finally make it to. Hours spent reading reviews until I found somewhere that not everyone hated. You're better than going to a bar, for the first date anyway. Not even your skin show will change my mind.  
  
I'm kind of wishing I took you somewhere even fancier than the little Italian. Except you tell me you've been meaning to try this place when I do the whole holding your chair thing for you. You're getting the whole nine yards from me tonight. And you make every second worth it.  
  
All it takes is, "tell me about yourself," after the orders are in and you're away. Every time you push the conversation towards me I hand it straight back. Do you think you're talking too much? If you do, then you clearly don't understand what's going on. I want to know everything. I want to know all the things I already know, from your own lips, and then I want to hear the rest too.  
  
If you give me all of you I swear I'll keep it safe.  
  
Besides I'm not in a rush. Not like I have a dead guy in the trunk or anything.


	5. ME

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean finally had everything he wants.

In the morning you’re there. You, backlit by the warm glow of the lamp we left on, fill my vision. You’re more than I thought I would ever get, you’re more than I deserve, and yet here you are. In my bed, with me.  
   
It’s been six weeks since our first date and you’ve been more or less living with me for five weeks now. I’d be shocked at how easy it was but there must have been an upside to the whole post-Carl mourning thing. When I brought you back here, again, you already knew Sam and you’d greeted him like an old friend. You hadn’t scoffed at the windowless rooms or wrinkled your nose at the underground home I live in. You’d smiled. Your shoulders melted at the sound of the bunker door closing. I’m not sure you were even aware of it but you feel safe here and you like feeling safe.  
   
In the beginning, you’d at least pretend you didn’t live here. You’d go home for days at a time and when you did that place felt a little less like _home_. I saw it. The house was colder, emptier. You moved about it robotically. It’s almost laughable leaving a place as big as the bunker and finding a one-bed townhouse too empty. I know why. It’s not the size of the rooms, it’s the way your voice echoes off the walls. I get it. I’ve understood you since our first date.  
   
That night you’d told me the answers to as many of my questions as you could. You left New York when your mom got sick. At first, you’d never made friends in town because you crammed every second you had with her. I get it. I understand the greedy need to hoard time with a parent. It’s another one of those things we both share. But then she died six months ago. And in those six months, you’ve only made casual friends, the kind you knew their names and said hi to at the grocery store. Sometimes you’d go to dinner or book club but it’s all exterior bullshit. The people who know you _almost_ as well as I do, the ones who you call because you miss them? They’re still in New York.  
   
I hate that whenever you talk about New York it’s like you left a piece of you there. Makes me wanna get in my car and bring it back.  
   
At least now I know the reason behind your choices. Why you ended up with Carl, why you suffered that dick at work. Hell, why you brighten up every time you skip down those stairs even if it’s just me and Sam here. You’re not just lonely like a bored housewife. You’re lonely to your bones. And you’d rather get your heart broken a hundred times than be alone.  
   
I’m the cure, where your suffering all ends. I won’t take advantage of you Y/N, I won’t break you. I want you so I can look after you. I see who you are.  
   
Now we’re here though. Two weeks ago I convinced you to really move in, which is fast, I get it. Sam can’t believe it and most of your stuff is in storage still, but it feels right. We feel right. Being together and having you here? I’m not worried anymore. I trust you because I trust us.  
  
You sleep curled into me. On your side, your right side, snuggled against my chest with your legs tangled between mine. By morning you’ve moved but not far. Enough that your face is on the pillow next to me. With you in your spot, I get to enjoy watching your lips part and the slow, deep breaths you take. You’re perfect awake but in sleep you’re different somehow and I can’t take my eyes off you. Everything slows down watching you sleep.  
   
Then, you stir. Sometimes it’s when I tuck stray pieces of hair behind your ears or sometimes it’s with the weight of my hand on your cheek. I can’t help touching you and I’ll never be sorry when you open your eyes, see me and smile dreamily.  
   
“Mornin’”  
   
Your smile gets wider and you untangle yourself to stretch your arms above your head, “do we have to get up today?”    
   
Not the first time you’ve asked me that. Every time you do it gets harder to break your heart. Even superficially.  
   
“’Afraid so sweetheart,” you whine and I bring you back to me with a quick kiss to your lips. “But you haven’t got work till three so we don't have to get up _right_ now.”  
  
You smile against my mouth and lean into my touch. Your shoulder then neck, my fingers follow a blissful trail of your impossibly soft skin. Fuck, you’re too good. I'm convinced these mornings of ours are as close as I’ll ever get to heaven again. Last time I went it hadn’t agreed with me and now if I end up there when I finally bite the big one? Well, it won’t compare to this. Lazy mornings mapping every part of you. Sometimes the sex is slow and lazy and sometimes I bury myself in you till you scream. It’s always ours. It’s a bubble that only pops when the door opens.  
  
Today is a playful middle. No brutal rush and or lazy rock of my hips. Today is teasing, holding out as long as we can until fun becomes frantically chasing release. Then you’re begging me and I won’t let you go over the edge until you say it. Not until you answer my question, always the same one.  
  
“Who do you belong to, baby?” My forehead pressed against yours and I've all but stilled against you. I’ll hold it all back until you tell me what I want to hear. No, not want. What I _need_ to hear.  
  
“You. Dean, please. I’m all _yours_.”  
  
You might think it’s just sex. You might think it’s a possessive kink thing. I’ll let you think whatever you want because deep down we both know the truth. You can have everything you’ve ever wanted with me, as long as you’re mine.  
  
We not slipping back into sleep so it’s barely a minute before you slip away from me. Although you never leave without a kiss and a promise. “I’m gonna grab a quick shower and then I’ll make you some breakfast.”  
  
“You’re too good to me.”  
  
You look at me like you're about to make the moment serious. As if you know all the things I’ve done for you and breakfast is just part of your debt.  
  
But, you don’t know. And I’m not keeping track. I’d never keep score with you, there is no debt. I did what I had to but all that’s in the past. The present and the future is only you in my bed. Or you as you almost leave in nothing my shirt.  
  
“I know I am. But you must have figured you signed up for this when you asked out a chef?”  
  
I shrug against the pillows, I’d never really expected you to cook but you know know that.  
  
“Nah, I figured there’d be more pie, to be honest.”  
  
Your eyes flash and you pout playfully, “oh you asked for it, Winchester.”

* * *

“Hey dude,” Sam starts. There are only two ways this sentence is going to finish. Since it’s not my birthday I’m pretty sure we're not going to a strip club.  
  
“I found us a case.” He finishes with that telltale smile. He needs a hobby. Or someone of his own. He gets bored too easily and he forgets that I have you. I get it but unfortunately, my face is already grimacing. “Come on dude. Two people dead in three days. Both of them with strange animal bites on their necks.” He even bends his fingers to air quote the word 'strange'. Loser.  
  
“Vamps?” I don’t mean to sound so hopeful but bloodsuckers mean I won’t even be gone that long.  
  
Sam looks back to his laptop as if the article he’s reading will actually say vampires. “Looks like it.”  
  
He sounds excited and hell, I wouldn’t mind a little mano e mano to blow off some steam. And a few days with Sam will do me some good. You’re the problem. As much as this is my life you are a new complication and it’s been the same story for the last six weeks. I can travel as far as I can but you’re still here. Pulling me back to you like a stretched out rubber band is connecting us. The drive back always feels like letting go, letting myself ping back to where you are. It’s dangerous to think about you while burning bones and gutting monsters. One day it'll get me in trouble.  
  
Of course, it is easier now. Now I can call you, text you, and let myself grin at my phone when you reply. But still, leaving is the fucking worst.  
  
“Pie number three is in the oven. I swear I’ll make you rue the day you accused me of not making enough pie… oh hey, Sam. You don’t mind if I kill him with pie right?”  
  
You bounce in with a plate in your hands which means number two finally cooled down enough that you’ll let me eat some. Sam looks up at you with a fond smile, “don’t you think he’s tried that himself over the years?”  
  
“I don’t doubt he’s tried but I’ve got the moxie to _really_ pull it off.”  
  
I love that you and Sam are friendly like this. Maybe even on the way to being actual friends. You both accepted each other without argument. But I should put a stop to this particular conversation before you conspire long enough to put me on a diet.  
  
“Ok, ok that’s enough. I don’t joke about your hopes and dreams.” The slice I take from your hands is cherry and you rock onto your toes while I take a bite. Only when the first mouthful makes me moan are you satisfied enough to relax. “I hate to slow you down when you’re on a mission but we’re heading out on a case.”  
  
You frown quickly. You try to catch yourself but it stills lingers on your face, “really?”  
  
“Afraid so, sweetheart.”  
  
“Well since the next one is pecan will you at least take some for the road? If you don’t I’ll eat the whole thing and we don't all have your insatiable metabolism.” You whine a little from the chair next to me that you’ve slipped into. All the better to be closer before I leave.  
  
“Pecan? I’ll take the whole thing.” You laugh into me so the sound vibrates my chest. Your hair is soft under my hand as I stroke it, still taking mouthfuls of pie with the other. “You sure you’ll be ok for a few days?”  
  
“I’ll be fine. Go, save some people. I’ll still love you when you get back.”  
  
You don’t seem to realize what you’ve said, or you don’t find it out of place. Maybe you’re not keeping track. But it’s the first time you’ve said _that_. So, naturally, I'm grinning like an idiot.  
  
Sam waits the appropriate amount of time before he clears his throat, “I’m still right here guys.”  
  
“And if you're lonely I know some nice girls I can set you up with.” You mumble without looking at him.  
  
“I appreciate the offer.” He sasses back to you before fixing his eyes on me, “wheels up in thirty?”  
  
“Make in an hour.” My girl just told me she loved me after all.

* * *

There’s a lot of clues I should have picked up on that something’s wrong when we get back. A half-eaten plate of food sitting on the table in the library, next to one of your books, is the biggest. It suggests you were mid-meal when you’d been distracted by something. This particular meal, still waiting for you with a fork left resting in it, is stone cold now. So, you’re not heading back from something at all. Wherever you are, you didn’t intend to be gone long.

I can’t help that I’m excited to see you after a two-day hunt that turned into three. Excited to see the recognition on your face when you see me, to know that you light up like that for me. I’m excited to see the girl who loves me. Excuse me for missing the goddamn clue.  
  
Sam doesn’t question my long strides or fast pace. He knows I’m itching to see you. Especially since he’s sat in a car with me for the last six hours. He’d told me you were fine, safe in the bunker waiting for me but that hasn't stopped the nerves making me antsy.  
  
So, each step is a little looser, calmer. My shoulders sink back into my body and I can feel the tightness of my face relax.  
  
Because you’re behind that door Y/N. You’re waiting for me like you have done for six weeks. You’re waiting for me like I waited for you since day one.  
  
Except I missed the clues so I’m not prepared for what’s _actually_ behind the door.  
  
You’re sitting in the bed and hunched over. Your legs are swung over the edge of the bed as if you fell in place from standing. Never realizing you’re uncomfortable twisted at the waist. I’m so blinded by the relief at seeing you again that I don’t notice what’s in your hands. Not at first.  
  
I do see the tears. Red, puffy eyes and wet streaks on your cheeks. You lift your head to look at me with none of the bright light I've waited to be blinded by. It’s this confused mix of anger and sadness instead. That’s not how you’re supposed to look at me. Suddenly I want nothing more than to beat the crap out of whoever put that on your face.  
  
“What happened?” I’m trying, fuck am I trying not to scare you. Although I can hear the growl in my voice and feel every muscle I have tighten in anticipation. I knew I shouldn’t have left you alone in the bunker. Even here isn’t safe enough for you.  
  
You flinch away from my hand as I reach out for your shoulder. “Don’t touch me.”  
  
And I don’t. I’ve never touched you without your permission. Yet without the distraction of you under my fingers I finally start to notice things. Like, say, the assortment of items strewn on the bed in front of you.  
  
A hex bag. A wallet. A set of keys.  
  
Or more precisely. The hex bag that could have saved your no good ex, the wallet of your sleazy boss and the house keys you lost five weeks ago.  
  
I don’t know how long you’ve been sitting here. It could have been five minutes or five hours. At the very least it’s enough time for you have made some assumptions. They spill out of you without me saying another word.  
  
“You looked after me when Carl… I know what he did but he didn’t deserve to _that_. But you-you looked after me. And when I came home and told you Steve was missing, that we’d all been interviewed by the police, you told me it was nothing. You said he’d probably skipped town. With-without his wallet? That you have?!”  
  
“You don’t understand sweetheart, I…”  
  
“I think for once I do understand. You’re a… god, you actually… you killed them and then lied to me about it.”  
  
Angry I can fight with. Sad I can fix. But the betrayal in your voice? Damned if I know how to make that better.  
  
You sway on your feet as you swing your body upwards in one swift, unstable action.  
  
“Swee-” My hands are defensive and trying to stop your panic.  
  
“Don’t you dare. I’m not your sweetheart. Never again. How can you think this will ever be ok?”  
  
The click of the door as you open it stirs me out of my stupor. The dumb blindness that has me stuck standing and letting this play out clears. I don’t watch these things go by. And I won’t watch you leave.  
  
You’ve left the door hanging open because you think walking out like this is an option. You think I love you enough that I’ll let you go.  
  
It’s the exact opposite. I love you _too_ much to ever let you go.  
  
I catch up to you in a second and my hands have you in half of that. One hand over your mouth, because I know you’re a screamer, and a hand wrapped around your neck. I’d never squeeze enough to kill you Y/N I only need you to think I will. I need you to stop and realize that I’m doing this so we can work on this instead of giving up. We can’t give up.  
  
“Honey, you’re gonna come with me and we’re gonna talk.”  
  
I’m only trying to clasp my fingers tight enough to get you to cooperate and stop struggling against me. The fact that you collapse, unconscious in my arms, makes the whole thing easier.  
  
Okay, maybe I hadn’t had your permission to do that.

* * *

There’s a room at the end of a random corridor. One of those places no one visits often, if ever, in the depths of the bunker. It’s a corridor littered with empty spaces, half-finished rooms, and useless closets. There’s a door that maybe was going to be a panic room or something. There are random pieces of comms equipment, an old leather sofa and walls thick enough to keep anything out. Or, keep anything in.  
  
It’s not soundproof but Sam won’t hear you from his room. I can barely hear you sitting outside the room. I’m waiting till you’ve stopped screaming for help before I go in and talk to you. I guess I didn’t figure it would take this long. The bottle of whiskey in my hands is getting emptier than I care to admit while I stare at the spot you’re standing in. Where you’re banging on the reinforced metal door and screaming.  
  
Out here it boils down to a soft thump and a quiet “help.” In there it’s furious, barely contained thunder. I get it. You’re mad. You don’t understand yet. But I’ve waited longer for less before. You’re still everything to me and I’ll wait till the end of time if I have to. I have all the time in the world.  
  
You’d passed out. It made me sick to my stomach to see you like that but it made it easier to get you here. To this room, this place, that not even my brother knows about. You gave me time. More than enough time to lock the door, go back to the library and clear up your plate. I dogeared the page in your book too because you hate losing your place, and tucked the thing in my back pocket.  
  
I hate it. Removing the trace of you like you don’t live here. Pretending you weren’t here to begin with. But I missed the clues before, that doesn’t mean Sam will miss them for a second time. At the very least it needs to look like you haven’t been here in a while. We need our time alone.  
  
Finally, it happens. Maybe I closed my eyes for a minute or maybe you gave up before I finished drinking. The ‘help’ that you’d screamed becomes something else. A pleading shout in there and whisper from out here, “Dean!?”  
  
I give it another minute. You should take a few more breaths now that you’re calm. You say it again, resigned, “Dean?!”  
  
Fuck, I _still_ love it when you say that.  
  
I’m not, say, an idiot. I know that putting you in here, like this, is like trying to trap a storm in a box. A damn stupid idea. I took precautions, obviously. There’s a set of cuffs around your wrists. Not tight enough to pinch, never. But tight enough to keep your hands in front of you, for now, and make sure you’re not going to lash out when I open that door.  
  
Actually looking at you when I slip inside is worse than listening to you out there. I stand against the door so the illusion of escape isn’t tempting you to try anything. What I never expected was the way you slink away from me. Even if I'm across the room. Your eyes widen and you cower into the corner of the couch. Never taking your eyes off me, which means I don’t miss the way they swim with fear.  
  
“I’m not going to hurt you Y/N, I would never. Not really.”  
  
“How long Dean?” Your body, face, features might be scared of me but your voice is as hard as the metal at my back.  
  
“What?”  
  
“How long are you going to keep me locked up in here like a criminal? When you’re the one who.. how long?”  
  
I need to separate this version of you from the one who told me she loved me days ago. The only way I can manage that is by dragging my hand down my face, taking you out of my sight for a second. “This is temporary, we need time to talk. I had to stop you leaving.”  
  
Not letting an easy nickname slip from my mouth is a very conscious effort. I’ve already seen you flinch from me once today, I don’t need to see that shit again.  
  
“Temporary? We need to talk?” Each repetition sounds less like a question and more like bad news. You’re distracted enough by anger that you forget to be scared of me. You pick yourself up from the seat you’re in, shaking your wrists in midair. “I’m handcuffed. You put me in a choke hold Dean. You… you…”  
  
“I’m sorry. Please try to understand.”  
  
“Tell me you didn’t do it. Just tell me this is all some drunk nightmare and put me back in bed. Say the words.” You take another step, pleading through the metal on your wrists, “tell me you didn’t kill Carl. That you didn’t kill Steve.”  
  
The pause is long enough for you to figure out my answer. You know the answer already.  
  
“Technically the witch killed Carl.” A scream comes out of you, born in the depths of your soul, primal and painful. “Baby please, you gotta understand. I did it all for you. To protect you. Carl and Steve were bad news. You needed me to save you.”  
  
“SAVE ME? DOES THIS LOOK SAVED TO YOU, DEAN?” Your connected arms motion wildly to the red around your throat and shake the cuffs for extra effect. “Carl was a cheating assface but you know what most people do? They break up with the cheating assface not have them killed by fucking magic!”  
  
This is fine, it’ll be fine. You’re not calm yet. I tried to pull the band aid off too quickly.  
  
“You need some time. ’S fine. You’ll understand soon.”  
  
As my hand goes for the door your anger becomes fear. “No! Dean! Don’t leave me in here again. Please don’t leave me in here!”  
  
Closing that door on you, hearing the heavy lock followed by your dulled sobs, breaks my fucking heart.

* * *

The next few days are more harsher than I could have imagined. You refuse to look at me, talk to me, or otherwise acknowledge my existence. The blanket I bring you to sleep with gets thrown off your shoulders whenever I come in. You know, in case I find out you’ve actually been using it to keep warm. You never rush for the food or drink I bring you, electing to wait till I’m good and gone before you admit defeat and eat.  
  
You don’t get it Y/N, I'm trying to take care of you. I’m only trying to give you the time to get your head around this. God, I wanted to give you all the time you need but now my patience is starting to wear thin.  
  
I’ve been sitting in the room on a wooden chair, leaning against the door for an hour now. The trick is to have a book to read but yours is in my back pocket again, all I need to do is wait out your boredom.  
  
There’s this big exasperated sigh from your direction before you say anything. “Have I behaved enough to get these off yet?”  
  
You’re holding up your wrists, which I can see are red and angry underneath the cold metal still tugging at them. “Shit, yeah.” I  prepare myself for the flinch again. It’s a pleasant surprise when I make contact with your skin and you don’t move an inch. It’s not the same as when you’d lean into my touch, not yet anyway, but this is still good. We really can get there again, together.  
  
“Thanks.” You’re tight-lipped and the word is clipped. It’s still progress. It’s still you talking to me more than you had.  
  
“You’re welcome, sweetheart,” I try my luck, your icy reception to the nickname is better than it had been. “I didn’t mean to leave you in them so long, was waiting till you calmed down.” The cuffs get thrown on the desk across the room hoping that I can finally start showing you the way back to me.  
  
You choke out a harsh laugh, “yeah, I’m the one with the problem. My boyfriend murdered two people and almost choked me to death. Sure, I overreacted.”  
  
“But see you still called me your boyfriend.” I try my hand at being playful and I swear the corner of your mouth twitches.  
  
“Would you believe me if I said I’m going crazy in here?” I know you inside and out so I know that you’re joking. Not only are you made of stronger stuff than that but the raised eyebrow says it too.  
  
“Maybe I’ll bring you something to-” the end of my sentence gets lost in the blur that moves in front of me. You’re up, across the room fumbling with the handle of the door and pulling it open. My hand pushes the door closed again before you can get out into the corridor, “why’d you have to go and do that?”  
  
You lean forward, defeated again. Your forehead rests against the cold metal that’s still held closed by my weight. “Because I don’t think you plan on letting me out of here Dean.”  
  
“Of course I am. I still want a life together. I love you. That’s why I won’t put the cuffs back on.”

* * *

“You’re cooking? What did Y/N fall and hit her head?” I know Sam means it as a joke but he’s doesn’t understand that it’s too soon for jokes. I can’t laugh this off while you’re still locked in the depths of the bunker and we haven’t laughed together again yet. I’d love nothing more than for you to be here cooking with a smile on your face but you’re not ready to come out yet.  
  
“Y/N’s not here.” I'm sick to my stomach lying about you. I wish I didn’t have to. Wishing is for suckers though.  
  
Sam has one of his goddamn green smoothies in his hands, cold from the fridge, the sight of it makes me frown. It mirrors the frown on his face at you being gone. “Oh is she at work? She didn’t say she was working today.”  
  
Days ago I’d have been feeling warm fuzzies that he cares this much about you, that he knows your schedule. I’d have been happy that the two most important people in my life are becoming important to each other. Now his questions are roadblocks. My throat itches with the lies I’m about to tell. “Actually, she went home for a while.”  
   
“I thought she was moving in?”  
  
“Yeah, well, she still had a few more weeks on her lease and we had a fight about some dumb shit. She’s cooling off.” Not a whole lie. In fact, none of it is _really_ a lie. You do have a few weeks left on the house but I never said that’s where you are. We did have a fight, you are cooling off. Sam is going to piece the rest together from the way I’m staring into this pan of bacon like a sad sack of shit.  
  
He wants to say he told me so, probably. He’s the one who asked us if we were moving too fast.  
  
That’s not what comes out of his mouth. He lays a hand on my shoulder and squeezes to let me know he’s there, “I’m sorry. I know you and Y/N were happy but I’m sure she’ll come back. She really seems like she loves you.”  
  
I must look pathetic if Sam has gone straight to talking me down from the ledge. Despite myself, despite trying to contain myself, I can’t help the way I turn my head to him, “really? You think she loves me?”  
  
Oh god, I am pathetic. Only for you Y/N.  
  
“Are you kidding me? I thought you had a crush and then I saw the way she looks at you.” It’s innocuous in how casual he is. Sam sees it that easily. Black and white. While I’m standing here with a slither of a doubt, that maybe you’re not the one, he reminds me that you’re the _only_ one. He reminds me of something I’ve forgotten after days of keeping you locked up. We're meant to be.  
  
You love me Y/N. Not because your life has got so much better since I was in it. Not because I treat you like you always hoped you’d be treated. You love me because you see me. And you’ve seen me at my worst now, that version of myself I justified being to protect you. The guy who put hands on you, albeit temporarily, to stop you from hurting yourself.  
  
Running would have hurt you. And by keeping you here instead you’ve seen all of me. Your hero, your boyfriend and now, your protector. You loved me before and if you still love me it’s only a matter of time till we’re fixed.  
  
Sam smiles encouragingly. The one he saves for people who are freaking out while they explain the impossible thing they saw. He even looks down at the bacon in the pan like he’s happy that I’m happy, which is never how Sam looks at bacon. The food is for you but he can’t know that.  
  
He stops as he’s halfway out the room. “Hey, I was going to head out for a few hours this afternoon, catch a movie, you wanna come?”  
  
“Nah, Sammy. I’m good.” A couple of hours I won’t have to explain my disappearing act to Sam. An afternoon convincing you.

* * *

Sam’s been gone a few hours already and other than some time when I brought you lunch I’ve left you alone so far. I gave you your book and watched your face light up like it used to when you saw me. It’s a start so I didn't push anything. Left you alone to read. Slow and steady wins the race.  
  
Now my brother will be home soon. I want to see you again before I have to eat dinner with him and pretend everything is above board. I need my fix.  
  
Here’s the thing that I’m not expecting. The smile on your face when I walk in. It's half convincing me that I hit my head on the hunt and everything since has been a nightmare.  
  
“Dean! Finally, I’ve been waiting for you.”  
  
Your reception is everything _I've_ been waiting for too. You’ve been in here almost five days now and the progress has been too slow. I was starting to worry that no matter how much I loved you maybe too much of you had been chipped away and yet, here you are. Dog-earing the page of your book and standing up to meet me. You’re shaking a little, rattled with nerves but there’s a smile on your face that tells me not to worry.  
  
“I've been thinking and I wanted to say I’m sorry.”  
  
“Sweetheart, what are you talking about?” I’m still being careful about touching you. Your hands are trembling by your sides like you’re worried about the same thing.  
  
You take in this big breath, “I- I think I get it now. I was hurt before, about you lying to me, and I was shocked. But then I'm sitting here eating the food you brought me and reading my book that you’d saved my place in, and something clicked. I was scared you know? Not because of what you did but scared because honestly, you’re the first person who has ever loved me this much. You take care of me, you’ve always taken care of me. And I was afraid to let you do that because maybe I didn't believe I deserved you. It's weird to say considering everything but you're actually good for me."  
  
I close the gap between us with a step and raise my hand to cup your cheek. You lean into my touch like it’s home. “But I pulled some shit. I killed people in your name. You’ve gotta hate me?”  
  
I’m giving you an out Y/N. This one out.  
  
“I don’t know if it’s possible to hate you. How could I hate someone who wants to look after me like you do? Dean, I love you.” You say it softly, a whisper, a secret. Through lips that are parting for me.  
  
Leaning down to kiss you is everything I’ve wanted to do since I got back from that hunt. This once, I let myself have what I want. My other hand comes up to hold you so I've got your whole face in my hands while I taste you again. Your lips are as soft and inviting as I remember. Your tongue is eager and this kiss? This kiss couldn’t lie. This is how I know you’re still mine. You're my perfect fit.  
  
And then metal closes around my wrists. You’re quick and you snap the cuffs until they hurt. I didn't know you were this good a fucking actress Y/N with your mouth still pressed against mine as you trap me in.  
  
“What the fuck? Baby?” I splutter as I stumble a little, not far back enough. In the next moment, you raise a knee to my balls and holy fuck, there's so much anger behind it. You want to cause me pain and my groan tells you it worked.  
  
“You’re a _monster_ , Dean.” You bitterly spit in my direction while I fall to my knees. “Jesus, how I could I ever love you?”  
  
That’s the last thing I hear before a wooden drawer is smashed over my head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deep down I am a benevolent queen. So, the epilogue will be up in a few hours. Rejoice!


	6. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When one door closes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like the prologue, we jump out of Dean's POV for the conclusion to this tale of woe.

She runs like her life depends on every step, which it kind of does. She doesn’t know if he’s catching up with her. She doesn’t even know if he’s opened his eyes again. For all she knows she could have killed him, she could be a murderer fleeing the scene of the crime.

It’s difficult to know where she is going. She’d got lost in here before but the bunker is especially endless when fear is her compass. And she had no idea exactly where in the bunker her prison had been. How far is she from the bedrooms or the library? Her heart pounds harder the further she runs. Panting, struggling breaths echo down the empty corridors. On at least one occasion she could swear she’s retracing her own steps after a wrong turn.

It’s a lifetime of shattered nerves and running but she finally recognizes something. It's the library she dubbed Alexandria. The tables she called her dining room. The illuminated map she had touched like it held the promise of exploration. The room is so safe that she stops like she’s already free. Or she has to before her lungs explode.

Her things are a fleeting concern. While she’s trying to steady her labored breathing. While she’s bent over herself with her hands leaving red welts in her knees where she’s resting her body weight on them. Only then does her mind decide to ask if she should worry about her possessions. Most of her stuff is in storage anyway because everything happened so quickly. But there are some things scattered in his bedroom. A necklace her grandmother gave her is on his nightstand. It’s not worth much except for the memories of the woman it holds. Her phone, if he didn’t destroy it, is in the room too. There are some clothes she loves. Some of her favorite books.

Nothing is the most valuable thing she has but everything together feels like all that she owns. The trinkets she deemed she couldn’t live without. The one box she dared move in with before going any further.

None of it is worth risking going back.

There’s a creak that could be one of the old machines. Or it could be him coming for her. The fact that she hears the noise at all means the blood pumping through her veins isn’t ringing in her ears anymore. It means she needs to move.

Without her phone, this will be hard and she almost changes her tactic. She could go to the garage and steal a car. He owed her that at the very least. Her fear gets the better of that plan. It’s too much of a risk to go back into the belly of the beast. The garage means first venturing deeper into the bunker and he knows it better than her. If he is coming for her already then he’d sniff her out before she ever managed to grab a set of keys.

The front door. It wasn’t quiet and it meant leaving on foot with nothing but the clothes on her back. It’s the only choice though. The bunker isn’t too far outside of Lebanon. And if she remembers from the few times she did the journey it’s not completely without cover. She thinks at least. There were a few trees? A few hiding places in case he comes looking for her on the way.

It doesn't matter, that's how she's leaving. The front door is the closest and most immediate way out of this tomb.

She’d take the stairs two at a time if her legs were long enough. She has to settle for running up them double speed instead. Well, half running and half dragging herself up them with her hands clinging to the cold metal as she climbs.

At the top, the bunker door opens. Sam.

She recoils at first, the sight of any Winchester is enough to send her spiraling in her current state, but Sam is the normal one. Sam was the one who asked if they were moving to fast. Sam didn’t lock her in a room, chain her up and keep her as a possession.

“Y/N?! I haven't seen you in a while? Are you ok? Dean said you had a fight.” His concern is honest and confirms her suspicions. Sam has no idea she’s been here the whole time. He's worried about finding her here. He’s innocent in all this. He’ll help her.

But she’s still wary of saying too much. The brothers have a bond and she’s practically a stranger. “Sam, I need to… I need to go. I’ll explain soon, but right now I’m going.” She won’t ever get a chance to actually explain. She has no intention of seeing either man ever again. He doesn’t need to know that.

He puts two concerned hands on her shoulders to calm her down and casts a worried look from up high. Sam wants to be sure she’s ok. She seems scared and broken. In no fit state to be walking out the door with nowhere to go. The way she flinches at his touch is proof of that. “Hey, hey. It’s ok. You’re ok.”

He has this way about him. She believes him despite everything. She believes that with or without his help she’ll be ok. He instills this confidence in her like a best friend might, no matter how little she _really_ knows about him.

“I still need to go. He’s… I should…”

“Did you guys have another fight or something?”

If only it were that simple. If it was a fight she could sit down in the kitchen with a calming tea and talk it out. Or cool off for a day and come back to fix it. But she's only had two changes of clothes in the past five days and her throat still feels raw from screaming.

Before any more nonsentences escape her mouth she absentmindedly rubs her wrists. The one that had been cuffed while she learned to behave. Until she learned that he was only trying to protect her.

Sam does not miss her action or the redness of her skin.

He exhales slowly. Disappointed. “I was afraid of this.” His voice carries genuine sorrow and his stomach drops. 

“What?” She asks, terrified by the dread that ghosts it’s way up her spine. The confidence of a minute ago makes way for something ominous and heavy on her chest.

Sam takes back his hands and she notices the relief at not being held in place. It's dizzying, the feeling of someone letting go of her. The sense of freedom is like a drug. Sam turns back to the thick, heavy door of the bunker and she waits patiently. Any second now and that door will open with a metallic clang. She'll see daylight again, she'll taste the humid Kansas air on her lips.

There's another sound instead, one that she's not expecting. The sound of impending doom, her end, is marked with the click of a key in the lock. “I’m so, so sorry.” He mutters quietly although she hears it as a shout. 

For what may be the last time ever she gains some confidence in herself, enough to speak up. “Sam, what are you talking about?”

He’s the normal one. He’ll help her. Her mantra is starting to wear thin.

“I need you to know I didn't want any of this,” he’s still not looking at her. One of his big hands is leaning against the door like he might collapse against it from sheer exhaustion. Him not being able to look at her should be the first hint of his betrayal. “I had no idea he’d gotten this far.”

"Sam, open the door. Please." The last vestiges of hope echo in her voice.

He swings around suddenly, possessed by a need to make you understand. “It’s not his fault. After Lisa, after everything...” Sam’s eyes dart around, wide and fearful. He’s not supposed to say her name. He hasn’t said it aloud in so long but Sam cannot stop himself trying to reason this all away, for her to hear. Sam may not like it but while Dean is focused on her, Sam needs to look after Dean. “He needs to protect you Y/N, what happened to _her_ was an accident but he learned his lesson. Dean wouldn't… Y/N he would never hurt you on purpose.”

There’s that word again. The one that has lost all meaning. _Protect_.

If she could make a noise she might gasp or squeak. She might scream even. Maybe she’d beg, plead or curse him out?

She doesn’t make another sound because of the hands that weigh heavy over her. Déjà vu. One covering her mouth before she can think to open it and one that wraps around her waist this time. The grip on her used to be loving and safe. A blanket of security but now it is tight and dangerous. She is pulled back into a strong chest harshly and back into the darkness she hoped to escape.

* * *

Manhattan, like many towns, has a local paper. It’s not Pulitzer Prize-winning but it exists for the community it fosters between residents. It’s two days after a missing person report is filed that the paper runs an article about a missing woman. Most recently a resident of Manhattan, Kansas.

The story is a blurb amongst a sea of terrible things happening in the world. A cautionary tale not to leave town because monsters exist beyond the city limits. There’s no larger pattern to her disappearance, nothing strange except the lack of clues, and the woman isn’t affluent or noteworthy. The story is simple, a brief synopsis of her, a chef on the rise, and the last time she was seen. It’s a plea for information. Unfortunately few people pay attention to the call to arms. Not many care about the missing woman.

Four weeks later a follow-up article is written. Article might be the wrong word. It’s a column hidden in the back. A few paprapgrahs that serve to fill an awkward space between other stories, rather than actually save a woman’s life. It states that the woman is still missing and, tragically, there's no new information. But the police have no leads and it's much easier to assume Y/N is simply another woman who doesn’t want to be found.

In the end, Y/N wanted nothing more than to be found.

Tragically she never would be, if there’s one thing Dean Winchester knows how to do, it’s take care of _his_ things.


End file.
